Wit. You’ll hardly blame me, Gentlemen, when you shall know what a damn’d unfortunate Rascal I am.
Lod. Prithee what’s the matter?
Wit. Why, I am to be marry’d, Gentlemen, marry’d to day.
Lod. How, marry’d! nay, Gad, then thou’st reason; but to whom prithee?
Wit. There’s the Devil on’t again, to a fine young fair, brisk Woman, that has all the Temptations Heaven can give her.
Lod. What pity ’tis they shou’d be bestow’d to so wicked an end! Is this your Intrigue, that has been so long conceal’d from your Friends?
Lean. We thought it had been some kind Amour, something of Love and Honour.
Lod. Is she rich? if she be wondrous rich, we’ll excuse thee.
Wit. Her Fortune will be suitable to the Jointure I shall make her.
Lod. Nay then ’tis like to prove a hopeful Match; what a Pox can provoke thee to this, dost love her?